


Fight Club

by inoubliable



Series: Skin&Earth [12]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Porn, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Infidelity, M/M, Memory Loss, Recovered Memories, Reunion Sex, Reunions, you all know what that means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 15:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13413756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is forty years old. He returns to Derry. He remembers.--He has just enough time to shower and brush his teeth before there’s a knock on the door.Eddie has the sudden irrational thought that it’s that fucking clown, but promptly feels ridiculous, because of course it’s just Richie. He knows it’s Richie without even looking through the peephole. He also knows that he should not open the door.He does it anyway.





	Fight Club

**Author's Note:**

> "Whatever happened to talking it out?  
> Always keeping our thoughts locked in our mouths.  
> And the silence always turns to shouts.  
> Did we forget what it's about?"  
> -[Fight Club](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEeo-n8okTU), Lights

Eddie Kaspbrak is forty years old.

Staring at the peeling _Welcome to Derry_ sign as it flashes by outside of his car window, he feels all of thirteen.

It’s raining. It pounds the roof of his car, an insistent drumming that drowns out the radio station, which has been mostly static for the last five miles. The sun should be going down, but Eddie can’t see it for all the clouds, dark and oppressive overhead. The streets of Derry are deserted. Everyone seems to have the good sense to get in out of the rain. Everyone but him, apparently.

The sky turns white and lightning streaks through it, followed immediately by the growl of thunder. Eddie hasn’t seen a storm like this since… since…

Since the night Georgie Denbrough disappeared, he thinks, but he does not know who that is.

He has thoughts like these, sometimes. There’s a big black hole in the back of his brain, and for the most part it stays just like that, huge and haunting and empty. Sometimes, though, it cracks open just enough for something to ooze out, like a memory but not quite, fractured and wrong.

There was the time he had been walking the busy streets of the City, and a woman stepped out into the crush of people ahead of him, small and red-headed. He had stared at her fiery hair for two whole blocks and had almost known her name – _Bridget, Barbara, Beatrice_ – but then she had turned and the face had been all wrong. He could not picture the face he had expected, though. He did not know any women with hair that furiously red.

A few years back, he hired a man named Mitchell to drive for him. Mitchell was young and black, and his kind smile made something in the back of Eddie’s brain itch. The kid was a good worker, and a good man, but Eddie was guiltily relieved when he decided the job wasn’t for him, because trying to place him in the black void of his own memory was exhausting.

Once, and only once, in college, Eddie slept with one of his classmates. The guy was tall but lanky, like he hadn’t yet grown into his body, more boy than man. His hair was wildly curly, and his glasses were much too large for his face. Eddie accidentally called him ‘Richie’ in bed, even though Eddie doesn’t know anyone named Richie, even though the boy’s name was John. Eddie never heard from him again.

Being back in Derry feels a lot like prodding the black hole of his memory with a sharp stick, begging it to burst open. He’s scared it will. He’s scared it won’t. He’s _scared_. His chest feels tight in a way it hasn’t in a long time. He hasn’t used an inhaler in years, but he wishes fervently for one now. Maybe he’ll stop by the pharmacy, see if Mr. Keene will sell him one after all this time.

Except that’s just another crack in the back of his head, and the name _Mr. Keene_ is just another ghost of memory. Eddie does not know anyone by the name of Keene.

He should turn around. He should get the hell out of this town. He might have promised that he would return, but that was a lifetime ago, a stupid pact made by a stupid boy who Eddie doesn’t even remember being.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

He keeps driving.

* * *

_Beverly._

Her name was Beverly.

He remembers now. She is as beautiful as ever, even though her cheek is bruised and that light in her eyes – once as vibrant as her hair – has dimmed. She hugs him fiercely when she sees him. She is almost as tall as he is in her high-heeled shoes.

The black hole of his memory does not just crack open this time, it explodes. Everything rushes back with such force that his head aches sharply and he has to sit down.

He remembers Ben, except Ben looks almost nothing like the boy in Eddie’s brain. He’s tall and built, with a full, thick beard. His eyes, though, are still very kind.

Bill greets Eddie with a hug so firm it feels a little bit like he’s being suffocated, but Eddie pushes his face into Bill’s shoulder and manages to breathe. There is no reason Bill should smell the same as Eddie remembers, but he somehow does, underneath the cologne and fabric detergent. Eddie has a thousand different childhood memories of falling asleep in a bed that smelled just like this. Bill was his very first friend, Eddie remembers. His very best friend.

Mike looks older than he should, but when he smiles, he is still every bit the handsome home-schooled kid Eddie threw rocks at bullies to save. His hair is greying at the temples, and his shoulders slump like he’s tired to the bone, but the hand he claps onto Eddie’s shoulder is strong and warm and capable. Eddie feels safer, having him there, even now that he remembers that they aren’t safe, they aren’t safe at all.

He wants to ask about Stan, but then someone says his name and peers at him over Mike’s shoulder and he suddenly can’t speak.

It’s Richie.

It’s _Richie_.

Eddie very seriously thinks he might pass out.

His sole comfort is that Richie looks similarly stunned, his face pale and his mouth open. His mouth is always open, Eddie remembers, but he’s usually saying something.

Eddie needs him to say something.

Richie takes a step forward, and Mike steps back. There’s suddenly nothing between them. Eddie stands up, because he’s caught between the urge to rush into Richie’s arms and the urge to run far away.

He settles for standing his ground when Richie takes another step, and then another. They’re close enough to hug now – _close enough to kiss_ , Eddie’s traitor brain thinks – but Richie doesn’t touch him. 

He wants Richie to touch him, so fervently that it scares him. Richie starts to lean in, probably for a perfectly platonic hug, but the familiar motion of it makes Eddie panic. “I’m married,” he blurts. It’s the first time he has thought of Myra since returning to Derry.

Richie blinks, and then smiles. “I know.”

Eddie is struck suddenly with fear, terrified that Richie somehow remembered him this whole time, that he managed to keep tabs on Eddie’s life while Eddie managed to forget he ever existed.

But then Richie lifts his left hand and flexes his ring finger. It’s bare. “Your ring.”

Eddie looks down at his own hand and the gold band on his fourth finger. “Oh.”

“He’s a lucky guy.” Richie doesn’t sound wistful. He sounds like he’s stating a fact. Eddie’s skin feels too tight. He misses his inhaler worse than ever.

“It’s, um.” Why is he explaining this? He doesn’t have to explain this. “My wife. I have a wife.”

Richie actually looks surprised, which should be offensive, except Eddie’s used to it. He’s small and well-groomed and very clean. He gets the husband question a lot.

And, besides, Richie has no reason to think Eddie would ever end up with a woman. He knows better than anyone that Eddie spent his formative years very attracted to men. One man, in particular.

“Well.” Richie inclines his head. “She’s lucky, too.”

“Thanks,” Eddie says, because he’s not sure what else to say.

Someone finally asks where Stan is, then, and Eddie manages to look away from Richie. From the way the hair stands up on the back of his neck the way it does when he’s being watched, he doesn’t think Richie does the same.

* * *

They try to make plans to battle It – again – but Bill came from England and Richie came from California and Eddie drove most of the day, so they all agree to get some rest first. Eddie books a hotel room, even though Mike says he has enough room for all of them at his house. He needs some space. He needs to clear his head. All of that empty space in his memory has been filled in, and his brain feels too full. He almost misses the black hole.

He has just enough time to shower and brush his teeth before there’s a knock on the door.

Eddie has the sudden irrational thought that it’s that fucking clown, but promptly feels ridiculous, because of course it’s just Richie. He knows it’s Richie without even looking through the peephole. He also knows that he should not open the door.

He does it anyway.

Richie is leaning against the doorframe like he’s expecting to stand there for awhile. He looks sort of surprised to be standing so suddenly face to face with Eddie, but he doesn’t stand up straight, slouching in the doorway with a kind of casual elegance that puts Eddie’s teeth on edge. Eddie stares at him, taking in all the small, new details he was too overwhelmed to notice before. Richie’s hands are shoved deeply into his pockets. His jeans are frayed at the bottoms and faded, and his shirt is wrinkled, like he shoved it into his suitcase without folding it. His hair is too long and it falls into his eyes, which are no longer obscured by the thick glasses Eddie remembers. They’re dark and clear and staring right at Eddie, like Richie doesn’t want to look anywhere else.

“Hi,” Eddie says, a beat too late. His voice is very quiet. He doesn’t ask how Richie knew where to find him, and Richie doesn’t explain. There is a fraught sort of tension between them that Eddie is terrified to break, mostly because he doesn’t know what will come of it. No one else has ever made him feel this electrically charged. The hair on his arms is standing on end. He’s pretty sure touching Richie would literally shock him.

“You gonna let me in?” Richie asks. His voice is quiet. Private.

The last thing Eddie needs to do is be alone with Richie Tozier.

He backs away from the door but doesn’t shut it in Richie’s face. Richie brushes past him. Eddie breaks into chills when their arms brush.

 _Get a fucking grip_ , he tells himself, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. The noise does not seem to startle Richie, who stands casually in the middle of the room, his hands still in his pockets. He does not sit down. There’s really no place for him to. The chair in the corner is occupied by Eddie’s suitcase, and the bed… God. There’s really nothing stopping Richie from sitting on the bed.

Eddie does not think he could handle having Richie in his bed.

“Nice digs,” Richie says, glancing around the room, like it’s much different than any other hotel room. Eddie says nothing, because he does not know what to say. Richie looks at him again, and he breaks into a smile. His teeth are still crooked. “You gotta relax, Eds. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I feel like I have,” Eddie blurts, and Richie’s smile dims.

“It has been a long time,” he allows, and takes a step closer. Eddie retreats, but he backs himself into the door and there’s nowhere for him to go. Richie does not move again, but the three feet of space between them is still too close. Eddie feels like he cannot breathe, but it’s different than when he needs an inhaler.

“Richie,” he says, and his voice sounds tight. “We can’t –”

Richie advances another step, looking like he can’t help himself. “Can’t what? I can’t visit my old friend, ask him about his life?”

“We’re not –” They’re not what? Friends? _Just friends_ , is what Eddie wants to say, but the reality is that they haven’t been anything for twenty years, and the crackling energy between them doesn’t change that.

Except it does, it changes everything, and they are both blisteringly aware of it.

Eddie does not know which one of them closes the distance, but all of a sudden he is pushed against the door by the firm press of Richie’s mouth against his. His arms close around Richie’s neck, and it feels both like every kiss he remembers sharing with Richie, and nothing like them at all. Richie is clearly well-practiced, one hand closing over Eddie’s hip, the other cradling Eddie’s jaw, his thumb pressing into Eddie’s lower lip to coax it open for Richie’s tongue. He tastes like cigarettes and spearmint gum and every childhood kiss Eddie suddenly remembers. Eddie sucks at his tongue desperately, his hands clenched up in Richie’s wild hair.

If one of them pulls away, they’re going to come to their senses.

Neither of them pull away.

Richie’s hand falls from Eddie’s face and he grips Eddie underneath his thighs, hoisting him up against the door. Eddie’s legs wrap tightly around Richie’s hips, and he gasps brokenly into the kiss. Their mouths break apart, then, but Richie smears immediate kisses across Eddie’s jaw and down his throat, murmuring the whole time. “Can’t believe I lost this,” he says, and Eddie’s entire body throbs, including his heart. “Can’t believe I ever let you leave.”

“Stop talking,” Eddie begs, and yanks at Richie’s hair. Richie gives a helpless moan, his hips flexing against Eddie’s, a dirty mockery of what they could be doing, if there were less clothes between them. A mockery of what they’re going to do.

Eddie is under no illusions. Richie is going to fuck him. He _wants_ Richie to fuck him.

“The bed, Rich,” Eddie gasps, arching into the sharp press of Richie’s teeth. “Please, I want—”

“I know what you want,” Richie says, his voice a low rumble. Eddie expects Richie to put him down, to lead him to bed by the hand, but Richie carries him there instead, lying down on top of him, his body pushing Eddie’s into the mattress. It’s both familiar and suffocating. He has a sudden flash of himself, much younger, trapped beneath Richie’s gawky teenage limbs, saying ‘Get off, Rich, you’re gonna crush me!’

He doesn’t ever want Richie to get off of him again.

His leg hooks over Richie’s hip, dragging him impossibly closer. Richie is starting to sweat a little from the close contact, his hair curling even more frenetically around his forehead. Eddie is similarly overheated, and he would twist out of his clothes if Richie’s body wasn’t pinning him down, but Richie seems to have the same thought because he backs off, twisting out of his crinkled shirt. He has filled out with age but is still shockingly thin, his ribs flexing visibly when he breathes. The bones of his hips are so achingly familiar that Eddie wants to do something stupid, like cry. He reaches out instead, batting Richie’s hands away from his belt to unbuckle it himself. He slides it through the loops and tosses it aside, then goes for the button of Richie’s jeans. Richie’s hands cover his, and Eddie looks up. Richie is already looking back. His eyes are so soft that Eddie flinches away.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice wavering. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Richie does not stop looking at him, and his expression does not change. “Like what?”

“Like you…” _Like you love me_ , Eddie thinks but does not say. Richie’s expression twitches like maybe he hears it anyway, but he doesn’t say anything more, and Eddie is both relieved and disappointed. He undoes Richie’s jeans, and this time Richie does not stop him, though he does climb off the bed to push them to the floor, along with his underwear.

Richie never had a problem with his own nakedness, Eddie remembers. Even now, after so much time, he stands in front of Eddie without shame, allowing Eddie to look all he wants. And, _oh_ , Eddie wants. Richie is no longer composed of sharp edges and awkward joints. He is smoother, somehow. He looks put together, cohesive, like every bit of his body was supposed to turn out exactly like this. His legs are long and covered in dark hair. His stomach is flat, and there is a little bit of definition there, but mostly he’s just thin – not muscular, not scrawny. Somewhere in the perfect middle. His hands are big, and his feet are bigger, and his eyes are so, so dark. He’s hard. Eddie reaches out and wraps a hand around his erection, and Richie hisses through his crooked teeth, like he didn’t expect that at all.

Eddie likes surprising Richie. He looks at him through his lashes, leans down, and rubs the flat of his tongue across the head of Richie’s dick.

“Jesus _fuck_ , angel,” Richie groans, and Eddie is struck by the pet name. Richie used to call him names all the time, good ones like sugar and sweetheart and baby doll, but this is the first time Richie has done so in twenty years and Eddie’s entire body is buzzing. He opens his mouth and takes Richie inside and tries to coax out more of those sweet words.

He has never done this. No, that’s not true. He hasn’t done this since he was a teenager. He hasn’t done this with anyone other than Richie. It tastes exactly like he remembers, salty and bitter, but Richie smells like soap, like he paid extra attention down there. Eddie wonders if he expected this. Eddie wonders if they were always going to end up here, like this, Richie’s hand in his hair and Richie’s cock in his mouth.

“Open up a little,” Richie coaxes, his voice somewhere between soft and demanding. Eddie obeys, relaxing his jaw, and Richie pushes in, just a little, releasing a long shaky breath. “Yeah, that’s it. Just like that.”

Eddie remembers exactly how Richie likes it. He hollows his cheeks and opens his eyes, looking Richie fully in the face. Richie’s eyes are heavy lidded and sparkling, and his mouth is lax, like he can’t quite manage to shut it. He looks so much like he did twenty years ago that Eddie’s heart hurts and he has to look away, has to shut his eyes tight and sink down until he’s distracted by his own gag reflex.

“Jesus—” Richie bites out. Eddie pulls almost all the way off, then sinks back down, starting a rhythm that makes Richie whine. The little spot just beneath the head is a real sensitive spot for Richie, or at least it used to be, and Eddie draws back after awhile so he can push his tongue there. Richie’s entire body seizes up, his hand clutching tight in Eddie’s hair. “Don’t fuckin’ do that,” Richie gasps. “I’m gonna come in, like, two seconds if you do.”

Eddie draws away entirely, partly because he does not want Richie to come yet, partly because he can’t hide his smirk. “It’s that easy? I mean, I remember you always came pretty fast, but I thought that was a teenager thing.”

Richie’s eyes narrow, and he tackles Eddie into the bed. Eddie half-expects it but he still squawks a laugh, knees curling up protectively. “Watch the merchandise, Eds!” Richie cries when Eddie nearly catches him in the groin. “I’m not into getting my balls busted.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow up at him where his face is hovering a scant few inches away. “Then why are we even friends?”

“While I agree that you are a ballbuster,” Richie says, leering, “I wouldn’t really call us friends.”

 _What would you call us then?_ Eddie wants to ask, but that’s a dangerous question. He spreads his legs instead, drawing Richie between them.

“Richie.” Eddie’s voice sounds much more serious than he means for it to. Richie’s smile dims but does not die; it looks fond, almost, like he can’t stop himself from smiling when he’s staring at Eddie. Eddie does not let the way that makes his insides squirm stop him. “I want you to fuck me.”

Richie laughs. “You have made that fantastically clear,” he says.

“You seem like you need some coaching,” Eddie returns without much real bite. “Do you always take things this slow?” The Richie he remembers was fast and furtive, taking every opportunity to get off in the back of his car or behind the bleachers. “Do you ever manage to have sex before your partner falls asleep, or has this been a lonely twenty years for you?”

“How did you get even _mouthier_?” Richie asks, and leans up and away, stretching over the bed, reaching for the nightstand. He pauses before he gets there. Eddie figures that must be where he keeps his lube at home, and something aches inside, knowing Richie has done this with someone else, multiple someone elses, enough someone elses for him to automatically reach for supplies that aren’t even in the same state, aren’t even on the same coast.

“I have some,” he murmurs. “In my bag.”

Richie opens his mouth, like he wants to say something about that, but Eddie wriggles out from beneath him before he can. He fishes the bottle of lubricant out and tosses it onto the bed. Richie is hanging over the edge, digging something out of his jeans. He tugs a slim black leather wallet from one of the pockets and produces a condom from it. “Pays to be prepared,” he says when Eddie stares at him. That weird ache returns, thinking about who Richie might have planned to use that condom with. It wasn’t Eddie. When Richie tucked that condom into his wallet, he didn’t even remember that Eddie Kaspbrak existed.

“Hey.” Richie’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. He knee-walks to the edge of the bed and then sits on his haunches, reaching for Eddie. Even on his knees, he’s taller than Eddie. His hands cradle Eddie’s face, then smooth down both sides of his neck and meet up again at the first button of Eddie’s shirt, undoing it with care. Eddie half-expects Richie to rip the shirt right off of him, but he takes his time, undoing each button until Eddie’s shirt falls open and he can push it off his shoulders. It pools on the floor, next to Richie’s clothes. Eddie reaches for his own belt buckle, but Richie shakes his head. “Let me,” he says, quietly, and Eddie realizes his hands are shaking when he lets them fall to his sides.

There’s a quiet jingle when Richie removes his belt, but other than that, the room is silent. His pants fall to the floor with the quiet whisper of fabric brushing skin, and he’s left in his underwear until Richie hooks his fingers in the waistband and removes those, too. Then they’re both naked and staring at one another. Unlike Richie, Eddie does not look at all like he used to. He has gained weight, and years in the sun have sprouted an array of new freckles, up and down his arms and across his chest. He doesn’t have as much body hair as Richie does. He’s small in a way a grown man shouldn’t be, short and bottom-heavy, almost feminine. He is not nearly as comfortable with his own nudity as Richie is, and he shifts his weight a few times as Richie stares.

“I’m not—” he starts, but Richie says, “You _are_ ,” and kisses him again. It’s different, both of them being naked. It feels so real, suddenly. His erection had flagged without any stimulation, but it starts to twitch back to life when Richie’s sharp teeth catch his bottom lip.

Richie pulls him onto the bed and they lie side by side, still kissing, Eddie’s leg thrown over Richie’s hip, Richie’s hand between his legs. He gives Eddie a few long, slow strokes, then fumbles for the lube and pops it open, all without taking his mouth off Eddie’s. Eddie is the one to break the kiss, his mouth falling away with a sharp noise when the cold lube and Richie’s insistent fingers touch him. Richie doesn’t press in immediately, but he rolls the pad of his index finger over Eddie’s hole and Eddie’s stomach dips sharply, like that first heart-stopping free-fall descent of a high-up roller coaster. This is happening. This is really happening.

“Good?” Richie asks. He’s staring at Eddie’s face, eyes wide. Eddie is pretty sure he’s not blinking.

“Just do it,” Eddie says, almost a whine. Richie’s middle finger starts to sink in, and Eddie can’t fucking breathe.

It feels like so much more than anything else Eddie has ever felt. He feels torn open and raw, like Richie is not just fingering him open but is somehow managing to touch his very essence, all the stuff inside that makes him real. He moans, helplessly, and rolls onto his back, almost like he’s trying to get away from all the feeling. Richie follows him, propping up on an elbow, leaning over Eddie’s body, slotting against him in a way that Eddie can remember vividly even after twenty years.

“More,” Eddie gasps, without really meaning to. “More, Rich, I can take it, I can—”

“Always so greedy,” Richie says, like he’s pleased. “Always got something to prove.” A second finger pushes slowly inside beside the first, and Eddie’s throat opens on a long, keening sound, his back arched up tight. “Can’t believe I ever forgot this,” Richie says to himself, and when Eddie looks up at him, Richie’s eyes are _burning_. He’s so beautiful that Eddie can’t help but stare, grasping at his shoulder.

“Kiss me,” he pleads, and Richie darts down immediately, like he was just waiting for the word. The kiss is open-mouthed and sloppy, and Eddie mostly stops participating in it when Richie spreads his fingers apart inside of him, his mouth falling slack. But it’s nice anyway, having Richie in his face, tasting and smelling him, those molten black eyes watching his every move.

Richie fucks him with his fingers for a long time. He adds more lube after awhile, so much that it makes a filthy squelching sound when he pushes back in. Eddie’s face flames, but Richie doesn’t even seem to notice the noise. He is both everything like the immature, foolish teenage boy Eddie did this with for the first time over twenty years ago, and nothing like him at all. Eddie thinks, a little dazedly, that there isn’t an incarnation of Richie Tozier that he couldn’t fall in love with.

Richie finally, finally draws his fingers out, and Eddie catches his wrist. “I want—” He pushes Richie onto his back, climbing shakily on top of him. “Like this.”

Richie’s hands clutch his hips tightly, sliding a little through sweat and lube. “You sure?”

Eddie doesn’t even grace that with an answer. He’s never been more sure of anything. He reaches back with his left hand to position himself, but Richie gives a wounded noise and Eddie snatches his hand away. Richie reaches for it. “Take this off,” he says, a quiet plea. Eddie doesn’t even know what he’s talking about until Richie’s thumb nudges against his wedding ring. Eddie thinks, for the first time, of Myra. She would be horrified. She would cry. He can almost hear her shrill, hysterical voice. _How could you do this, Eddie?_ she would wail. _And with a_ man _!_

He rips the ring off his finger and throws it to the side. He does not see where it lands. He does not care. Richie’s expression does something that’s too painful to look at, so Eddie stares up at the ceiling instead, lowering himself onto Richie’s cock. He pants through the stretch and the ache and tries to remember how good it’s supposed to feel, how good it’s _going_ to feel.

He moves after awhile, and Richie’s head falls back, teeth bared. He looks so _good_ , so good Eddie’s mouth feels dry, and Eddie puts his hands on Richie’s chest and starts to ride him right. Richie’s groan sounds like it’s been ripped right out of him, and he flexes his hips up like he can’t help himself. Eddie spasms. “Do that again,” he demands, his voice broken up and shaky. “Please, Rich, do it again.”

Richie’s fingertips dig bruises into his hips and he jolts up again, then again when Eddie gasps. Eddie’s supposed to be doing the work like this, but Richie doesn’t seem to mind. His face is set and serious, like all it takes to sober him up is fucking Eddie right. His eyes are open, and he’s staring at Eddie like he wants to look at nothing else for the rest of his life.

It’s almost a relief when Richie rolls them over, breaking the scalding eye contact. He can move faster like this, and he does, strong hips pushing into Eddie so hard he would be inching up the bed if Richie didn’t have him pinned down, their fingers laced and pressed against the mattress. They kiss, and then kiss again. The room is blisteringly hot, and Eddie can barely keep his legs around Richie’s waist, their skin slick with sweat, sliding together.

“I need to come,” he says, urgently.

“So come,” Richie says, with no small amount of patience, like they have all the time in the world. Eddie wants, suddenly, to slow down, to make things last, but it’s too late, it’s too late, he’s too wound tight and Richie reaches between their bodies to touch him and it’s over. He comes with a shout, his entire body taut, his head thrown back, Richie’s body between his legs and Richie’s voice in his ears. _The way it's supposed to be_ , he thinks, almost hysterically.

“That’s good,” Richie says, low and private. Eddie has the insane thought that he’s the only person who is ever meant to hear Richie like this. “You’re so good, Eds, you’re fucking perfect.”

Richie comes at some point, but Eddie is not sure when, exactly, because all of the tension bleeds out of his body in slow increments and he’s left floating, his eyes on the ceiling and his head in the clouds. He feels it when Richie pulls out, and when Richie climbs off the bed, and when Richie rubs a damp cloth between his legs, but it’s all distant. Unimportant. All that matters is the well-used thrum of his body and the thrilling mantra of _Richie Richie Richie_ in his head.

“You good?” Richie asks him, and Eddie responds with a kiss. There’s nothing different about it, but he thinks maybe that’s the point. It feels like every other kiss they’ve ever shared, deep and searching but familiar.

Kissing Richie feels like coming home.

Richie probably has his own room, somewhere, or maybe he’s staying with Mike.

He falls asleep in Eddie’s bed, instead. They lie side by side, their fingers tangled, their breathing synced.

Eddie dreams of dark hair and dark eyes and dark want.

It's the first time he has dreamed in twenty years.

* * *

Waking up beside Richie feels almost like being a teenager again. It takes a few minutes for everything to rush back, all the details in between, but staring at Richie’s face feels right. Feels like what he was always meant to be doing. He tells himself that if they make it out of the sewers, this is how he’s going to spend the rest of his life.

“Richie,” he whispers. Richie’s eyelashes flutter, but he does not wake. It’s easy to talk to him, like this. Eddie touches Richie’s cheek, softly so he doesn’t disturb him. “You know, I… I…” _Love you_ , he thinks, but does not say.

It’s alright. There’s still time.

* * *

There isn’t time.

He’s lying in the sewers, in the blood and the muck and the dirty greywater. He’s cold. He thinks, distantly, that his arm should hurt — or, at least, the part of his arm that's left — but it does not. Richie’s eyes are wet. Eddie touches his cheek, not for the first time, not for the hundredth.

It’s probably the last, because Eddie is dying. He knows he is. He can tell by the look on Richie’s face, horrified and heartbroken. Eddie does not understand that look. He should be used to Eddie leaving him by now.

“You know,” Eddie says, his voice very weak. “I… I…”

 _Love you_ , he thinks, but cannot say.

**Author's Note:**

>  _1..._  
> 
> I haven't read _It_ since 6th grade, so while this is canon compliant in theory, I am not under any illusions that this matches up exactly with the book.  
>  Either way, I'm so sorry. I'm very nervous about posting this because I feel like I have tricked people into thinking this is some light-hearted series where there's a happily ever after, but I've had this series planned for a long time now and it was always going to end up this way. Please don't hate me, because I love all of you.


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